


Stolen Minutes

by herrcolonel (presidentwarden)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Elevators, F/F, Gen, Introspection, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/herrcolonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Considering that District 13 has a 40-story elevator, there's probably a fair bit of time for conversation, or various alternatives to it. Johanna would know.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Learning and adapting has always been a component of this sort of affair. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, stepping slightly to the side before Johanna can charge past her like a battering ram in her usual fashion. But this time, Johanna takes her time, sauntering by and then pausing to make eye contact like she’s waiting for Coin to make a move.</p><p>Coin does not turn down any opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Minutes

She’s tried to count the stories, but she always loses track.

The elevator that plunges through the heart of District 13, ferrying its passengers from the scorched-earth landscape up above ground to the sprawling catacombs beneath, is sturdy, and it’s also fucking _fast._ The levels rush by in a blur before Johanna can take stock of them.

She supposes she could just ask.

_Nah. Not worth it._

The elevator’s other passenger is keeping a safe distance of several inches. Delicate hands folded in front of her, gray jumpsuit flawlessly fitted and gray hair cascading in a perfect line down to her shoulders, her eyes are steely as always, a clipboard tucked under her arm. She has a pen between her fingers, but doesn’t fidget with it, exhibiting a measure of self-control that Johanna envies.

President Coin is the very picture of prim and proper leadership.

So Johanna takes it upon herself to change this. A quick flick of a finger dislodges one of the locks of Coin’s hair, making a ripple in the waterfall of perfectly straight strands. It’s just the tiniest hint of dishevelment, but it humanizes her, disrupting the image of untouchable perfection, and Johanna likes the result.

For the first second, Coin doesn’t respond with anything more than a very slight quirk of a corner of her mouth, something that could be interpreted as a wry little smile. Then a tilt of the head to glance over at Johanna, looking ever so slightly upward. “Must you?”

Johanna’s lips part in a devilish grin. “Yeah.” She’s bribed and threatened one of the Capitol refugees to supply her with a steady supply of -- out of all possible things -- chewing gum. This particular refugee wasn’t smart enough to pack their pockets with real valuables, but when they fled, they brought a vast supply of small but important niceties to placate District 13’s immigration overseers. During the short-staffed days of war, somebody’s had to fill in the missing cogs in the well-oiled machine of government, and Johanna is a _damn_ good interrogator.

So she’s got a supply of chewing gum now, the spiciest cinnamon anyone outside of the Capitol can possibly handle, and as she chomps on it loudly, she can see the tiniest flinch pass across Coin’s face. It’s just a matter of etiquette, Johanna assumes, and her grin widens. Coin’s always been bit of a stickler for that.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. One of them probably ought to be.

She glimpses a level number passing by in a flash, but by the time she’s focused on it, it’s passed by, far out of reach of the thick glass window that protects the passengers. Rather than continue with her pointless attempt to figure out exactly how deep this damn rabbit hole goes, Johanna relaxes and leans back against the metal wall, arms hanging comfortably at her sides. She’s wearing a dark gray t-shirt, loose and rumpled -- hardly the highest of District 13 couture, but according to Effie, there _is_ no such thing as District 13 couture. Fortunately, Johanna doesn’t really care either way. The rest of her outfit’s made from whatever she could dig up in the deep recesses of the District 13 closets. Jeans, workout pants, sneakers -- anything that’s not strictly regulation, but still fits the plain simplicity of the world around her. Normally she’d be on the hunt for brighter colors, but given the Capitol’s fondness for extravagant hues, Johanna almost views the monochrome tones of the District’s style as a protest against everything the Capitol has come to represent.

So for once, she’s fine with wearing gray.

 _Nobody_ pulls off the District 13 look as well as Coin, though, who’s writing on her clipboard in precise neat script, marking the next day’s agenda. The schedules stamped on people’s arms are more optional now than they used to be. Johanna’s understandable aversion to bathing has led to an alternative: namely, a sheet of printed paper slipped under her door every morning that she can crumple up, shove in her pocket, and unfold whenever she feels like figuring out what she ought to be doing. Sometimes she wonders who delivers them to her. It’s nice to think that Coin might have something to do with it.

She’s off the morphling medication now, thank god, and although it still hurts _every single damn day_ she’s found ways around it. Capitol-inflicted traumas don’t wear off easily, though Johanna consoles herself by knowing that she’s strong enough to withstand it. One and a half Games, plus a bonus round of hell on earth by the Capitol’s best thugs, and she’d still rather do it all again than let them _touch_ Coin. If there’s one thing Johanna’s good at, it’s putting axes through skulls. And while she’s not as strong as she used to be, she’s already gaining some of the muscle tone back…

For a minute, she lets herself get lost in a momentary fantasy of beating up Capitol baddies, then blinks and sets her attention back on Coin, whose pen is still moving over the paper, writing notes to herself. Things to be done, meetings to be called, problems to be addressed. She’ll transfer it all to her communicator cuff later, but now and then, she lets herself indulge in old-fashioned ways. It’s only fitting for a historian, she supposes. Being president doesn’t leave her much time for the scholarship that occupied her younger years, an in-depth study of the ancient texts from bygone eras preserved so diligently in District 13’s archives. Classics, politics, human nature. It’s informed her well as a leader, and she likes to think, in some way, that she is carrying on a noble tradition.

Johanna’s staring, and Coin notices. The clipboard returns to her side, hooked to her belt, and the pen disappears into a hidden pocket. For a minute, Johanna wonders exactly how many pockets that jumpsuit has. Then she decides the best way to figure out would be to get Coin out of the outfit entirely. It’s only when the president clears her throat that Johanna’s thoughts return to more relevant matters, chomping on the chewing gum with great satisfaction. “Hey. You like cinnamon?”

Coin has an inkling of where Johanna is going with this. One perfect gray eyebrow lifts a little, lips pursed a bit as she considers an answer. When she’s mad, her stare can stop any target at a hundred yards, but there’s nothing but soft amusement in those beautiful gray eyes. Like everything she says, she’s thought out her words. “Yes, sometimes.”

“Yeah? Okay, I can work with that.” Johanna hiccups, then swallows the wad of gum whole, which barely unsettles Coin. She’s seen far stranger. Besides, Johanna has a digestive system made of steel. She has to, to have survived the slop the Capitol fed its prisoners. When the gum’s vanished, Johanna licks her lips, the taste of cinnamon still remaining, and the sharp grin reappears. Still leaning against the wall, she beckons with one hand. “C’mere.”

Coin obliges.

Johanna’s grip is stronger than she remembers, even though the last time this happened was a few days ago and Coin wasn’t quite expecting that, either. It’s not the act itself that shocks her, just the sheer _immediacy_ of it, the fact that in the span of seconds she’s gone from planning the mundane details of political proceedings to being kissed violently and deeply by a girl who tastes like hot cinnamon, strong fingers digging into her waist through the sturdy practical fabric of the gray jumpsuit. She closes her eyes and gently surrenders to it, kissing back. There’s nothing to lose.

It’s unclear which of them is enjoying it more; Johanna, whose short-cropped hair and tousled bangs are falling into her face in a way that completely defies anyone’s best efforts with a hairbrush, or Coin, who dares to slip one arm around Johanna and then the other, holding on tight. Johanna has an advantage of two inches’ height and makes the absolute most of it, letting go of the president’s waist to tangle her fingers in the silvery strands at her scalp, tilting her head back to make their lips meet yet again and with deeper intimacy than before. Johanna _hungers_ for this, kissing over and over, relentless in the strength of her grasp, while Coin, as always, acts more reserved. Her eyes flutter shut, kisses modest and tender. But she’s grabbed a fistful of Johanna’s shirt, and when Johanna pauses for air, Coin pulls on the fabric and brings her right back towards her, keeping them as close as the confines of the elevator’s corner can possibly allow.

Finally Coin herself needs a breath, and she lets go, not pulling away but merely reestablishing her space. Cheeks tinted pink, her eyes are blazing and bright, and her hair is tousled in a way she’d never ordinarily allow. She doesn’t make a single move to fix it. Again, there’s that hint of a smile, a look that is equal parts sweet and stern. To Johanna, it’s the loveliest look in the world.

“I'll admit, I like cinnamon more than I thought.”

Johanna practically cackles with delight. “Knew it.” And for a moment, she’ll indulge in a bit of juvenile self-satisfaction. Moments like this of true delight don’t happen too often, though they’ve been getting more frequent, which is nice. _Real_ nice. “So, was it me or the flavor that you liked?"

Coin eyes her, almost surprised that she’s asked. “You, of course. Let’s not be coy.”

“That’s more like it.” Johanna slouches against the wall again, a catlike smirk resting on her face. Rather than start with a new piece of chewing gum, she watches and waits in case Coin’s up for a second round of the kissing, but when the elevator gradually slows to a halt, she knows the opportunity’s used up. Coin’s looking a little self-conscious, and wipes her mouth discreetly, but Johanna just laughs at that. Nothing but painted faces, painted eyes, painted lips in the Capitol -- so she wears none of it. “Don’t worry. I don’t think anybody noticed. Elevator’s too damn fast to pay attention to what’s happening inside.”

“That’s a very good point.” Coin puts aside her mild twinges of embarrassment long enough to address her again, mouth twitching a little as she withholds a smile. But looking at Johanna, seeing that exuberantly vicious willpower to wrench everything good from life’s cold dead hands, Coin’s resolve breaks down and a tiny, genuine smile slips across her face. It’s just for a moment, but Johanna notices. Johanna _always_ notices.

And since Coin’s gone quiet again for a split second, Johanna fills the silence as the elevator drops to a halt, mechanisms clicking into place to stabilize the last stretch of its descent. “Hey, Alma.”

That gets more of a reaction out of Coin than any name commonly used to address her: President Coin, Madam President, Coin if the person’s rank is close to her own, Prez if Johanna’s in one of her sarcastic moods. Never just Alma. She turns immediately to answer, a small crease in her forehead as her shapely eyebrows lift a little. “Yes?”

“Lemme fix your hair.” Johanna’s method is clumsy, fingers brushing rapidly through the fine silvery strands, but Coin stands perfectly still for it, and by the time she’s done the president looks impeccable again, long hair cascading symmetrically to her shoulders, jumpsuit’s collar buttoned neatly and the wrinkles freshly ironed out of her outfit. “Better."

“Well, thank you.” The expression on Coin’s face is as close as she’ll ever come to true gratitude; as with everything, she prefers to do it herself. But there’s something strangely comforting about Johanna’s touch, the rough-hewn authenticity of her every action. An idea occurs to Coin -- she’s due for a meeting with one of the more important Capitol refugees, who has a sizeable list of frivolous demands that’s just waiting to be denied. Johanna versus the Capitol expats is never a fair fight, but still, she offers. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for this afternoon’s meetings?”

“Nah. I gotta-- hang on.” And here she hunts for the crumpled copy of her schedule, digging around in her pockets until she locates it and unfolds the wrinkled paper. That wry smile flickers across Coin’s face once more, but is replaced by her usual calm equilibrium when Johanna speaks again. “Gotta interrogate some new refugees from District 3. They arrived with a suitcase full of goddamn _wires_. Beetee should be happy.” Johanna shrugs, a smooth motion with her shoulders. “But we’ve gotta check all that shit to make sure they’re not spies trying to install something on our system. They say it’s not likely, but nothing’d surprise me anymore. So if you hear about somebody getting beaten up this afternoon, then you’ll know I was right. I’ll be the one doing the beating.” The paper gets crumpled again, and she stuffs it into a pocket. “Have fun with your meetings, babe. You know where I’ll be.”

“Very well.” At the pet name, Coin gets a slight eye twitch. She’s just not accustomed to it, and never will be. Still, in time, she’ll certainly grow used to it. Learning and adapting has always been a component of this sort of affair. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, stepping slightly to the side before Johanna can charge past her like a battering ram in her usual fashion. But this time, Johanna takes her time, sauntering by and then pausing to make eye contact like she’s waiting for Coin to make a move.

Coin does not turn down any opportunity.

Rather than let herself be grabbed and kissed like before -- a curiously delightful experience, if a bit different than what Coin usually considers herself to prefer -- she reaches out and pulls Johanna in for another parting kiss, just the briefest brush of lips before they both let go, then once again because they apparently _still_ haven’t had enough. But even when the kiss has finally ended, Johanna’s hand lingers on Coin’s side, tracing the curve from ribcage to waist to hip. She briefly feels the outline of the pen that disappeared into the president’s pocket, and smirks, saying nothing. Someday she’ll find the rest of the pockets in the uniform. For now, it’s a great excuse to touch.

Rather than say a proper goodbye, she throws Coin a quick salute and struts away, heading towards one of the myriad tunnels that litters the area near the elevator exit. Everything is well-lit in vivid pure fluorescence, but there’s a certain sameness of design that makes the whole thing look like a maze, and if not for the color coding for certain areas (installed much too late for Johanna’s tastes, but she’ll take what she can get) she’d still be getting lost. Coin, on the other hand, navigates the base perfectly, having memorized the maps by heart long ago. Normally, she’ll step out of the elevator and head towards her destination without a moment to lose, always caught up in haste and promptness. A president must be punctual.

But just this once, just one solitary exception to her rule, she stands outside the elevator and watches Johanna, her gaze following the sleek movements of her strides as she walks away.


End file.
